


One April Night

by venis_envy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
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    <img/>
  </a>
</p><p>Summary: They say that when a person loses one of their senses, the others heighten in an attempt to make up for the lack. I think he must have been one of mine. I notice such insignificant things now that I never had before. I can almost taste the sunrise, like vanilla and tangerines blended into one smooth, delicious, summertime kiss. I sit in the park across the street from home, watching the day begin. The sun peeks over the horizon in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of the night sky that is now retreating in its presence, for no two things so entirely opposite could ever coexist in the same place at the same time...I wonder how that escaped our notice for so long.</p><p>(NOT a death!fic...just tossing that out there since everyone seems to assume from the beginning part that one of the boys has died)</p>
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	One April Night

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The HP world belongs to JKR and the herd of lucky bastards who saw a good thing and jumped on it when they had the chance. I, sadly, am not one of said bastards. This is for entertainment purposes only, no copyright infringement intended.
> 
> A/N: I may be beating the ever loving f**k out of a fandom cliché with this, but I won’t say which one.
> 
> My dear friend, bsmog, and beta, bookjunkie1975, pre-read for me. I’m eternally grateful to them for always giving me the little nudge of encouragement I need.
> 
> Back when I first posted this on LJ, I had no idea when Draco's birthday was supposed to be, so please excuse the tweaking of canon in the name of creative license.

~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~

_There's this place in me where your fingerprints still rest, your_

_kisses still linger, and your whispers softly echo. It's the place_

_where a part of you will forever be a part of me._

_  
_

_–Gretchen Kemp_

~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~

They say that when a person loses one of their senses, the others heighten in an attempt to make up for the lack. I think he must have been one of mine. I notice such insignificant things now that I never had before.

Songs that I’d never bothered to listen to have suddenly taken on far too much meaning for my own comfort. The slightest brush of a hand against mine is a painful reminder of the fact that it isn’t _his_ hand. Everything is so poignant, yet nothing possesses the joie de vivre it once had.

I can almost taste the sunrise, like vanilla and tangerines blended into one smooth, delicious, summertime kiss. I sit in the park across the street from home, watching the day begin. The sun peeks over the horizon in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of the night sky that is now retreating in its presence, for no two things so entirely opposite could ever coexist in the same place at the same time.

I wonder how that escaped our notice for so long.

~*~

“Happy birthday, Draco.” Hermione stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek sweetly before thrusting a shiny, ribboned package into my hands.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to infuse my tone with as much life and sincerity as I can muster. It’s hard seeing them, Harry’s friends who, over the course of the years, have become _our_ friends, but I can’t turn them away. Not when they’re all I have left.

Hermione casts a wary glance at her husband. Ron fumbles, quickly wiping away all traces of sympathy from his features as he pulls a bottle of wine from one of the over-stuffed bags he’s holding.

Sympathy from a Weasley: the very last thing I want.

“Right, er…here you go, mate. Happy birthday.” He hands me a bottle of incandescent red wine. Even if it wasn’t glowing, I’d still recognise it to be from a prestigious Irish Elvin vineyard. The bottle practically hums with ancient magic. It must have set them back a fortune.

“Thank you,” I manage, as I stare at the intricately etched pattern on the bottle.

“That one’s for a special occasion,” Hermione says as she takes the wine from my hands, replacing it with a more practical 2006 merlot. “Not that your birthday isn’t special.” She smiles half-heartedly as though she’s aching to say more, but not allowing herself to.

It would be ridiculous, their level of discomfort in my presence lately, if I were on the outside of this situation looking in, but I’m not. I’m inside myself with no escape. Isolated like the abomination that I am. It’s the first birthday I’ve spent without him in three years. The first birthday where I wasn’t woken by the smell of sizzling sausage and freshly brewed coffee, greeted by his dazzling smile and warm embrace. I wonder when exactly I became this person; the kind of person who allows himself to love so deeply that the emotion takes on a life of its own, twisting and writhing its way through one’s soul.

I shove my free hand into my pocket and stare down at the label on the bottle, unsure of where else to look. I know it’s my eyes that make them most uncomfortable around me. Ron doesn’t ever say much, but Hermione told me once, after a few too many firewhiskies at the pub, that they looked frighteningly lifeless. Clearly, compliments and gentle words were lost on her, or rather, exhausted from consoling me within the first few months of his absence.

“We brought dinner. I hope you’re hungry.” Hermione takes my sleeve and guides me into the kitchen. “Chinese food.”

Ron sets the bags on the table as his wife tries her best to reach the wine glasses that are hanging just a bit too high without asking for help. I step up beside her and spare her the trouble, plastering a smile on my face as I arch an eyebrow at her. She smiles back, genuine this time, unlike when she first arrived this evening.

“Show off,” she says, taking the glasses from my hands.

“It isn’t my fault that Muggles don’t consider height advantages when selecting breeding material.”

“Breeding material?” Hermione snorts. “Most people don’t consider that sort of thing at all when falling in love, Draco.” Her smile falls as she realises she’s said the dreaded “L” word.

I continue to smile down at her, hoping to hide my hurt. “Don’t,” I say. “I don’t need to be coddled. It’s been nearly a year, Hermione. I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me.”

Her eyes search mine as if trying to determine the level of truth to my request. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Weasley brushes by, collecting plates from the cabinet to set our places at the table. It's odd to me, their refusal to use magic for simple domestic tasks, but I imagine they have their reasons.

“It’s okay, Hermione. Honestly. It’s just this day.”

She nods her head and offers a tight smile before finding her voice again. “He asked about you today...told me to wish you a happy birthday.”

My stomach twists at her words, a thousand memories churning in my mind and all I can do is nod.

“He misses you.” Her bottom lip trembles slightly as though she’s on the verge of tears, and whether it’s because she knows it’s a sensitive subject to discuss with me on a day that my emotions are already frayed, or simply the fact that she wants us back together almost as much as I do, I can’t quite tell.

“He knows where to find me. I’m not the one who left.” I turn from her, busying myself with the task of opening the bottle of wine, not willing to let her see the pain that I know is gleaming in my eyes.

The evening draws on in a soft blend of casual conversation and easy laughter, cut off too soon when my mother firecalls to wish me happy birthday. They slip out behind me, leaving the shining package and glowing bottle of Elven wine sitting in the tidied kitchen. I close the floo connection, ward the doors, and head to bed without touching either. The wards are still the same as when he left. I refuse to change them.

The guest room I stay in at Grimmauld Place still doesn't feel right to me, but I never could bring myself to going back to our bed without him. I imagine it isn't just the guest room. Nothing feels right anymore.

For the first time since the night he left, I crack the door open as I go to pass, peeking inside. Perhaps a small part of me hopes to see him there, lying on the bed, wrapped in sheets and wearing nothing else but a smile as he waits for me to join him. Of course, that isn't the case.

The room is still exactly as it was the day he left, only now, everything is covered in dust, dulling the vibrant colours that once breathed life into this space. A candle still burns on the bedside table, a result of Harry's Everlast Charm. The flame isn't hot, so the wax never burns down, nor does the wick. He was so proud of himself for coming up with that one.

I point my wand at it, preparing to extinguish the flame when something deep inside me twists painfully. It's irrational, I know, but part of me wants to believe that it burns for a reason. A faint representation of my love for him, everlasting, even after all this time. Or maybe one day he'll need it to find his way back.

Not willing to step inside the room for fear of offsetting the careful balance of _us_ with too much of my own solitary presence, I _Accio_ the candle into my outstretched hand.

Clicking the door shut, I continue down the hall to my own bed thinking that it's probably time I have a house elf come and clean that room. It's sat as a shrine to our failed relationship long enough, and even if I'm not quite ready to move on, perhaps the house is.

The wallpaper in this particular guest room is covered in crickets perched upon small olive branches. I never understood how someone could find that an attractive theme in home decor, but the Black's had always been a strange sort. I chose this room for my own when Harry left because of the incessant chirping that served to fill the aching silence. They quiet as soon as I enter, disrupting their song of solitude with my nightly routine. When I've finished preparing for bed, I curl under the covers, watching the flickering light of the candle flame, lost in thoughts of warmer nights and happier birthdays. I try not to think of his arm draped over me, holding me close, or his hot breath on the back of my neck as he laughs at my half-hearted attempt to move away. The crickets begin to chirping again as soon as I stop moving about and disturbing them, their soft melody lulling me into a dreamless sleep.

~*~

I'm surprised to note that thirty doesn't really feel very different from twenty-nine. I'd hoped to have more accomplished by this time in my life, but considering the setback of last June, the importance of career advancements and social stature pale in comparison to what really matters.

I lie in bed, listening to the slowing sounds of the crickets chirping as the sun rises beyond the window pane, casting its amber light across the grey room. Harry's candle still burns beside me and I almost laugh at my absurd thoughts of the previous night. Of course it isn't meant to light his way home. He knows perfectly well how to get here if he wanted to.

~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~

Wimble is the oldest elf at Malfoy Manor, passed to my mother when she married Father. He is sent to help me when my mother thinks I could use the assistance around the house. At first she saw no sense in me staying here at all after Harry left, but over time she came to realise that I wasn't going anywhere. I'm sure the fact that she hasn't yet moved out of the manor, even after my father's twelve year absence, has probably played a role in her understanding.

Mother thinks that Wimble might like to see Grimmauld Place once in a while, as it was a place he frequented in his younger years.

Despite what she thinks, and what Granger still insists, I don't think that house elves care much about anything, really. Wimble comes once a week and cleans, then puts on evening tea for me before leaving. I envy the simplicity of his existence.

Today, I stop him as he makes his way up the stairs. I tell him that I'd like him to clean the master bedroom as well this time, but I forbid him from removing anything. Simple cleaning charms will suffice. I'll launder the bedding when I get home. I don't know why, but it feels as though that should be my doing. The sheets that tied us together intimately in the shroud of darkness should be touched by no one else.

~*~

_His skin is smooth against mine as we move together, slick and hot. I kiss his shoulder, pulling him closer, his back pressed to my chest. The soft moans that escape his lips are almost enough to finish me, but I hold off, wanting to draw out the pleasure for both of us as long as I can._

_He reaches back, tangling his fingers into the hair at my nape, pulling me impossibly closer as he shifts, drawing his knee up, opening himself to me. I slide in deeper and both of us groan as I wrap my arms more tightly around him. His cock brushes against my wrist, stiff and eager as he ruts against the bed sheet._

_I wrap my fingers around him, stroking him in time with my thrusts as I whisper into his ear words of forever that I can only hope he understands._

_With a violent shudder and a strangled groan, he spills over my hand, chanting my name as if it’s the only thing keeping him tied to this world. I continue to rock into him, hard and deep as he clenches around me, whimpering into his pillow, and then my own release is pulsing through me in a wild rush. It’s as if he’s somehow managed to draw everything from me, physically, emotionally, blinding me. I collapse against him, holding him for just a few moments more before finally moving away._

_“I love you, Draco,” he breathes into the darkness. It’s the first time he’s said that, and it’s so quiet that I’m not even sure I heard him correctly._

_I roll toward him once again, kissing the back of his neck, burying my nose in his soft hair._

~*~

Pink and white blossoms are forming on the trees that line Diagon Alley. Birds sit on the otherwise naked branches singing to each other songs that have been nearly forgotten by human ears over the course of winter.

The air still has a bit of a chill to it, and I can't help but wonder if, wherever he is, he's remembered to wear his coat. He never used to. I always had to remind him when it was cold outside. He'd told me once that he was simply anxious for it to be summer, now that he didn't have to spend them locked away at his aunt and uncle's house, it was the season he looked forward to most.

"You're moping again. Is that all you old spinsters do?" Pansy kisses me on the cheek before lacing her arm through mine and leading me into the café.

"I don't mope," I say as we move to our usual table.

"Of course, darling. And you're never late, either."

The petite barista takes our orders and promptly rushes away to get them started. The one thing I like about this place is that, even though it's a wizard café, they insist on making all their beverages by hand.

"A wizard always arrives precisely when he means to, Pansy."

"Well, I believe your precision is off. But, no matter," she says, waving her hand as if to erase the previous attempt at a conversation. "You're here now, and I've brought you something." She sets a small box on the tabletop between us just as the girl returns with our drinks.

"I begged you not to get me a birthday present. Remember the ordeal from last year?"

"Oh, pish. You can't possibly still be mad over that."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Pansy, a stripper is never an appropriate gift to give, let alone in the presence of the giftee's significant other."

"Well, fortunately for you, you haven't got another of any significance this time round."

"Shut it, you troll." _He's still significant even if he isn't mine._

Pansy rolls her eyes and pushes the box toward me. "It isn't that sort of gift, anyway. More a token than a present."

Reluctantly, I take the box, opening it slowly as if something horrible might jump out at me. And, given Pansy's past gift-giving record, that isn't entirely unlikely.

Nothing moves, though. It's just a small, silk pillow with two silver cufflinks nestled atop it; coiled snakes with emerald eyes. I close the box and thank her politely, trying not to focus on the fact that the eyes of the snakes match Harry's exactly.

"They're for you to wear next Saturday to the Ministry's spring formal charity ball."

I groan and shove the box back toward her.

"Oh, no you don't," she says, pushing dark fringe away from her eye. You promised you'd be there and I've already found you a date."

A searing pain shoots straight through my heart. "I don't need a date, Pansy," I snap bitterly.

"You absolutely do, Draco. You're a pureblood wizard even if you seem to have forgotten that fact over the years. It's simply unacceptable for you to disregard tradition and I'll not allow it."

"Allow it? Who exactly is it that you think you are again?"

Pansy reaches across the table, her eyes soft as she places her small hand on mine. She’s always had little regard for personal space. Or perhaps she just likes to prove to herself that she’s somehow above the rules.

"I'm just someone who cares about you, darling. I want to see you happy. You'll ruin yourself if you continue down this path of isolation and self loathing."

"I don't loath myself," I snap defensively. It's a lie, but one I've told for so long now that that it should sound more convincing.

"Last year you had goals, Draco," she continues, ignoring my words. "You knew where it was your life was going, and who you wanted to be." A sad smile stretches across her lips. "Nothing has changed," she says sympathetically.

I want to scream at her that she's wrong, that everything has changed. Last year I was focused on my career, on rebuilding my family name. Last year I was determined to pull my mother through the financial ruin she was left in when my father was taken away to Azkaban after the war. Last year I was a volunteer with Peace of Mind, a charitable organisation for children suffering incurable magical ailments. Last year, I had Harry.

Now, only one of those things is important to me, and he's no longer here to care.

"Please, Draco. One tiny public event, just to get your name back out there."

"Who is she?" I ask calmly. There's no sense in fighting with her. She's mostly right, after all. Even if I don't like it.

"Please, darling. I may be known to push your limits once in a while, but I'm not going to blatantly piss all over your boundaries."

"Ever the lady," I say as the barista brings us a refill of the thick, dark coffee.

" _He_ is quite the looker, actually. Theo and I were introduced to him at your mother's Christmas party. Which, by the way, you missed."

"So, you insist I uphold tradition, but you're setting me up with a man?"

"No one cares about that sort of thing anymore. Not since their great Saviour came out years ago. Now everyone seems to think that having a hot, blonde, same-sex lover is the latest trend."

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly against the blunt edge of her words. Pansy has always had a disturbing talent for casually disregarding the depth of the relationship Harry and I shared. Or perhaps I'd always just made it seem as though he was nothing more than a convenient shag.

"I just meant that you can't go without a date. It's just not done." Her manicured nail slides around the edge of her saucer, an odd little habit she's had since school. "Anyway, his name is Isaac. He's got dark hair and brilliant eyes and," Pansy leans closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I can't exactly tell you how I know this, but I assure you, he's not at all opposed to threesomes."

"You're a disgusting hag."

She simply winks and goes back to her coffee.

~*~

The entryway is warm when I arrive home later in the evening, a sure sign that Wimble has lit a fire in the grate. It's small things like that that always seem to slip my mind now that I'm living on my own. I'm drawn past the comforting warmth of the sitting room, though, by the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen. Wimble has prepared a roast with potatoes and carrots, just the way I used to like when I was younger.

I sit down at the table, alone in the silence, and think about what Pansy said as I eat my dinner. This time last year, I'd been well on my way to working up to head of department of investigation of magical artefacts. The name of Malfoy still meant very little to the wizarding world as a whole, but Draco Malfoy was respected to a certain degree. And those who still looked down their noses at me—the ones who would whisper their disgust to one another as I passed them in the halls of the Ministry—they weren't worth the time it would take to glare at them in disdain. I was impervious to their useless opinions and snide remarks.

I cut back my hours at the Ministry after Harry had left. Throwing myself into my work as a distraction had done well for the first few weeks, but then the hurtful rumours and words of disgust would drift my way, weakening my morale—what very little was left of it—and I nearly resigned. It was Weasley who had talked me into staying on as a part time employee.

The teakettle on the stove whistles before drifting to the table and pouring itself into my waiting cup. It used to be Harry's hands that did that, and sometimes, while he waited for the tea to steep, he would straddle my lap and drag his fingers through my hair insisting that I tell him all about my day. He always made it nearly impossible to focus, though, kissing my jaw, tracing my bottom lip with his tongue, distracting me in the most delicious of ways.

It isn't healthy to think about him this much after ten months apart. I should be directing my focus to the future, not the past. I know this, Pansy knows this and, as much as Hermione still holds out hope for us, even she knows it. Otherwise, I'm certain she wouldn't have insisted I see someone about it.

My mind doesn't need healing, I have no desire to be cured of my love for him as if it's a distasteful affliction, but if I won't discuss it with my friends, there must be someone I can talk to. That was her logic.

The wizarding world is full of gossip mongers, evil bints itching to sink their claws into a good story to tell their friends or the press. And what better than that of how Draco Malfoy, the Saviour's former boyfriend, is so far off his bleeding nut that only a mind healer can right the damage within? No, that wouldn't do. Which is why Hermione recommended a Muggle healer. They called them psychiatrists. I scoffed at her suggestion at first. No Malfoy would ever need a Muggle for anything. Then she told me that Harry was seeing one as well. That it wasn't a matter of moving beyond each other, per sé, but a matter of learning to live with ourselves so that one day, we could try again to live with each other.

~*~

_“Sometimes I wonder if you’re even here,” Harry says as he gazes out into the rain._

_“I’m always here,” I reply sharply. And it’s true. We’re so tangled up in each other that I think we’ve both forgotten about the world around us._

_“Bullshit. You never even talk to me, Draco. We’ve been together nearly three years and I’ve only just found out what your favourite colour is.”_

_“How exactly is that_ my _fault?” I snap. “If you wanted to know, you could have asked.”_

 _“I shouldn’t have to ask. We should know each other well enough by now to just..._ know!” _He’s looking at me now, his gaze full of heat and ire._ “ _You never tell me anything unless I pry the information out of you. You...” Harry turns his gaze back out the window. His jaw clenches tightly as he shakes his head. “You never even touch me, Draco. Do you realise that nearly_ all _contact between us is initiated by_ me?”

 _I’ve never been a very touchy-feely kind of person. There are times I wish I was, at least with Harry. I’m well aware of the fact that I use sex as a method of being near him. Whether he’s inside me, or I’m in him, it’s the most contact we ever have, and I do enjoy it, not just the fucking, but the closeness. “You aren’t the centre of my universe. I have better things to do with my time that_ cuddle _with you.”_

_He laughs mirthlessly, fuelling my own anger. “Not the centre of your universe. What exactly am I to you then?”_

_I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation. It’s absurd and pointless, but I can’t stop the hurtful words from falling from my lips. “You’re just a convenience I bumped into on my way up in life.”_

~*~

Her name is Anna, a dreadfully dull Muggle name if you ask me. Then again, so is Harry. Doctor Rothaway, formally, but I can't bring myself to call her that. We haven't any doctors in the wizarding world, only healers. The word tastes bitter and foreign on my tongue. Thankfully, it was our first session three months ago in which she insisted I call her Anna.

Her office is in central London and there aren't any Apparition points within five miles. I usually walk.

The building is old and welcoming, but her waiting area reeks of cheap leather and artificial foliage.

"Draco." She smiles brightly, her red-stained lips stretching over too-white teeth. "How are you today?"

It's a normal question that anyone might ask in polite greeting, but as she takes a pencil from behind her ear and presses the tip to her small notebook, I know it's anything but.

I'm angry, hurt, helpless, lonely. "Stable." I settle for a more clinical response.

"That's an improvement," she says as she scratches notes onto her paper.

Is it? Had I been unstable during my previous visits?

"Have you been writing in the journal yet?"

 _The_ journal. Not _a_ journal or _your_ journal. It's one shifted word, but it makes all the difference to me.

I had told her over a month ago of the journal kept between Harry and myself during the years of our relationship. It was a gift from Granger. She had no idea it would become our main form of communication, and I'm certain that wasn't her intention. Harry had charmed it so that only our eyes were able to see the script within. Of course, I hadn't told Anna that part.

"No," I answer simply. I haven't touched the damned thing since the month that he left.

"I think it's important that you do," she responds. "It's a crucial part of your acceptance of the situation if you wish to gain closure."

I don't. I've told her before that I'm here to see her because of myself, my own personal demons that haunt my life making me incapable of a normal existence. Not because of Harry. Not because he left.

I don't understand how Granger thinks that this helps. We typically discuss my past, drawing out the things Anna believes to be the root of my problems: not hugged enough as a child, a too-distant relationship with my father, pushed away to boarding school at age eleven where I was expected to somehow find myself while learning the ways of the world, abuse.

I can't tell her of the fact that I was a prisoner in my own home, made to watch innocent people tortured to death over a dining room table that we were later expected to share meals at, or that Harry had been our only hope for survival. I can't tell her that we were on opposite sides of a war that affected our world right down to its very foundation.

All Anna knows is that we were school rivals who went through a hard time together while hating one another. She knows that, years later, when I had no one else in the world, and all I wanted was the sweet release that only death could provide, Harry had intervened. She knows that, as far as I’m concerned, I loved him more than anything else in this whole bloody world, but that I'd always had a hard time communicating that sentiment to him. She knows that he left because of the things that I said just as much as the things that I wouldn't say.

This week's session is short, thankfully. Anna asks me once more to write in _the_ journal; to act as though Harry is still reading it after I've left the house in the mornings. What would I want him to know about the last ten months of my life? Is there anything I'd want to tell him about the years before that?

"We'll close this week with something for you to think about, Draco." She doesn't look up from her notes as she speaks. "It seems to me that the largest part of the great Potter-Malfoy dynamic had always been all the raw, intense, scorn you had toward one another. Strip that away and what exactly are you left with?"

~*~

_A fine mist of salty seawater is carried upon the twisting breeze, up and over the edge of the cliff. I stand at the top, my toes just over the edge as I watch the waves crash violently against the rocks below. The water breaks with such ease, falling back into itself, finding its place once more. I wonder if it would be that simple for me._

_In the years since the war, my conscience seems to be niggling more and more. It’s gotten to the point where I’m not even sure what my purpose is here, why I survived while so many others didn’t. I have nothing to offer this world. No reason to be here. As a teenager, I’d thought countless times about the possibility of one using Avada Kedavra on themselves. I knew it couldn’t be done. For that curse to take effect, you have to actually mean it. You have to feel the hatred from deep within and project it through those words. Basic human survival instincts wouldn’t allow for such a thing aimed at oneself._

_This, though...this is a possibility._

_“You know,” a man’s voice says from somewhere near. I don’t turn to find the source; I just continue to stare down at the crashing waves. “A fall like that will wrinkle the hell out of those trousers.”_

~*~

Wearily, I eye the journal as it rests in its place atop the desk in the study. I never allowed myself to read through our entries in the months leading up to the end, but I wonder now if I should. Perhaps if I remind myself of the true reasons we fell apart, I won't hold onto false illusions of what we never really had.

I sit down at the desk with my glass of firewhiskey, aligning the journal in front of me carefully, as if the slightest upset will change the words within. The first page that I turn to are the last words I wrote in it nearly five weeks after Harry had already gone. I know what they say. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought the same thing.

_I can hardly feel you here anymore. It’s as if the very essence of you is fading along with the smell in your pillow, and I just don’t know how to carry on. I’m trying. I want to be strong, to hold on to the remaining shards of my life in the hopes that one day I’ll be able to piece it back together._

_What a foolish thought. Even if I could pick up the shattered pieces, a crucial one is gone now. You aren’t coming back. Nothing that I say can erase the words I’ve already spoken; nothing that I do can convince you._

_I want you to know that I love you, unconditionally and irrevocably. Those words, at least, you should take with you._

But he didn't. I kept them for myself until it was too late.

I flip to another page, dated months before. The messy golden letters tell me that it was one of Harry's entries before I even begin to read the words.

_Draco,_

_Don't be such a snobby prat. I only asked you to wear the blue shirt because I think it looks brilliant on you. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. Andromeda expects us for tea tomorrow. I hope you'll be finished giving me the silent treatment by then._

_I love you,_

_Harry_

It was a Tuesday morning that he'd written that to me. The previous Saturday, we were supposed to go together to the birthday party of one of Harry's associates. I stayed home, angry that Harry had tried telling me what to wear as though I couldn't dress myself. I almost smile at the insignificance of that ridiculous row. Then I remember, it was all the insignificant little things that added up to one catastrophic realisation: we simply weren't meant to be together.

I turn to yet another page, this time older. Another entry of Harry's.

_I don't think I've ever told you how perfect I find that spot where your neck and shoulder meet. It's incredible that I went twenty-six years without knowing that happiness had its own smell until I found that spot._

The words tumble around in my head accompanied by countless memories of Harry nuzzling my neck in that very place. Sometimes he would simply wrap his arms around me, breathing in deeply with his nose pressed to my skin, other times he would kiss and suck there as he moaned my name.

I drain my glass, setting it back down and running my hand over my face. It's odd how some things were easier said through ink and parchment than face to face, but I've come to realise only recently, that it isn't how we should have been. So many things left unsaid with no real certainty of ever again having the chance.

It takes days before I finally convince myself that it’s okay to add to thejournal. I make my way down the hall, the hushed sounds of whispering portraits doing nothing to calm my nerves. What if this is all I have left? What if my entire existence, everything that’s important to me, is reduced to ink and parchment? Will I live forever in our journal the way my ancestors are forever trapped in their frames on these walls?

I open an inkpot, dipping the tip of my quill in as I turn the words over in my mind. What would I say to him? What would I want him to know?

_Harry,_

_I miss you. God, I fucking miss you. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve gone over this apology in my head. It’s never adequate, though. Even if I had a thousand lifetimes, I would never be able to make up for the way I treated you. I don’t blame you for leaving. In fact, I’m surprised it took so long._

_Anna thinks I should write some of these things down—some of the things that we’ve discovered within the horrible beige walls of her office. She says that anger is a mask that I wear when facing things that I never quite learned to understand. Intimacy, trust...love._

_Sometimes it takes a life-altering change to shed light on what’s important to us. I know now that nothing in this world is more important to me than you, Harry. I think it’s too late now—I’ve missed my chance—but, if I could go back, I would do it all differently. I would make sure you understood exactly how much you mean to me. I would hold you and never let you go._

~*~

Isaac is good looking; a little softer around the middle than I usually care for, but nothing extreme. His eyes are the strangest combination of blue and green. So strange, in fact, that I can't decide which they actually are. I wonder if, somewhere down his family line, there was a metamorphmagus and this colour is a lingering result.

Cheshire Court is located within the botanical gardens of the Ministry's out grounds. A large, four-tier fountain sits directly in the centre, shimmering, opaque water cascades down in ribbons, carrying with it small flowers in every shape and colour known to wizardkind. The general idea is that guests make a wish and toss loads of galleons into it to be donated to the various charities of focus this evening. Each galleon and sickle turns to a flower for the evening, and at the end of the night, if all goes well, the fountain will be overflowing with them.

I had held out hope that Harry wouldn't be a guest tonight, that perhaps he was out of the country still. I can tell I won't be so lucky, though.

He's here. I don't have to see him to know that he is. As soon as we make our way through the garden gates, the air is humming with his magic, joy and energy radiating off of everyone just from his mere presence. It should be mine. All of it. I hate him for bringing such happiness to others while I'm left with none at all.

Isaac hands me a flute of champagne before we slip into the crowd. His hand rests gently on my back as we make our way around, greeting people he works with, introducing ourselves to the more important guests. I try not to shrug him off, not wanting to draw any attention to my discomfort. I don't much care for physical contact, especially with a stranger. He isn't persistent, though, and as soon as I move away, he lets his hand fall without question.

Weasley is standing beside the fountain, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his formal robes that are, as always, just a touch too short for him. I wonder how it is that Hermione hasn’t taken him in to Twilfit and Tattings to have proper measurements taken. As soon as I spot him, I feel the tension in my shoulders loosen. Improperly fitting robes and awkward stance notwithstanding, I excuse myself from Isaac and the giant of a woman he's currently socialising with and weave my way through the crowd toward Weasley, hoping that Hermione is close by. She, despite our history, has become somewhat of a rock in my life; the one constant presence I can always count on, and it's certainly a comforting feeling.

Pink and lavender fairy lights twist and dance above the crowd of people, the soft music and gentle laughter lulling me into a sense of false calm as I near my friend. I should have known. I should have stayed away, but it’s too late now. They've already seen me— _he_ has already seen me.

Harry stands beside Ron, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, the other holding a snifter of brandy that I can almost smell on his breath even at this distance. It's only a faint memory, though. Thoroughly aged brandy had been his drink of choice as long as I can remember. He'd come home from work after an exceptionally difficult day and have a drink to unwind.

Everything seems to slow as I near them, the whole crowd melting away until only he and I are left. I'm suddenly stricken with a memory of him sprawled out on the chaise in the den, his robes draped over the desk chair, tie discarded onto the floor, top two buttons of his shirt unfastened giving the most teasing view of his collar bone. Harry reached out to me, as if offering me the permission he seemed to always know I needed, beckoning me forward. I'd crawled up from the end of the chaise slowly until I sat astride his thighs.

We made love right there that evening, not even bothering to remove all of our clothing, our need for each other had been so urgent. His trousers were tangled around his ankles, shirt unbuttoned entirely so that I would have access to his chest and shoulders. My own trousers had been flung across the room, Harry's hand up under my shirt resting flat against my back, his other gripping my tie, pulling me down into a series of desperate kisses.

I shake the memory from my mind as I approach. The smile fades from Harry's face and I can't help but wonder if my expression mirrors his own of utter discomfort. I want to turn and leave, but my pride won't allow me to. It's been ten months since we were together, four since last I saw him.

I can't tear my eyes away from him, even as I hear Weasley greet me, even as Hermione grabs my arm gently trying to gain my attention.

"Malfoy," Harry says with a slight nod. His voice, though entirely lacking emotion, is like music to ears that have forgotten how to hear.

I swallow hard, willing my hands not to tremble, not to grip my champagne flute too tightly. "Potter," I return, hating that we have, apparently, regressed to our school age use of surnames.

"Draco, I'm so glad you came," Hermione says, effectively drawing my attention from Harry this time. "There are a few people I want you to meet. Mrs Miller, from the children's ward at St Mungo’s is here tonight." Hermione has been trying to talk me into meeting the director of the children's ward for quite some time now. She thinks I could gain a part time position there if only I'd bother meeting with people about it, especially after all the work I’d done with Peace of Mind. It's what I had always wanted, to be a healer at St Mungo’s, to help rather than hurt for once in my life. I'd even gone through all the necessary training after I'd finished my education at Hogwarts, but when the time came for me to actually make a decision about my future, to consider my family—my mother—a job at the ministry seemed better suited for repairing a severely damaged reputation.

The four of us talk casually for a few minutes, Harry and I not daring address one another or really even acknowledge the presence of the other. I'm just about to make my escape when suddenly I realise our awkward group has gained a number.

A handsome, sandy-haired man stands beside Harry. I try not to notice how close they are to one another, how their shoulders brush, how comfortable they both seem to be, but I can't ignore the pain in my chest as the man drags the back of his fingers down Harry's cheek. I can't ignore the acidic bile that rises in the back of my throat as he leans in to place a chased kiss on lips that once belonged to me.

Hermione is speaking again, but all I can hear is the deafening sound of my own thundering heart and blood racing through my veins. I think she must be introducing me to this man who now has his hand resting on the back of Harry's neck because he lets it drop, smiles brightly, and reaches out to take my hand in greeting.

I take it briefly, for no other reason than I know the pain of being refused a simple handshake, then I excuse myself and push back through the crowd without so much as a nod in Harry's direction.

Isaac looks concerned when he notices me moving toward him. I quickly school my features, offering him what I hope is a small, sexy smile to try and dissuade any questions.

The next two hours are the slowest of my life. No matter how desperately I try to keep myself busy engaging in conversation with the people around me, my eyes still seek him out. I try to convince myself that I don't want to find him, that I don't care what he's doing, I don't want to see him and his date wrapped around each other on the dance floor like a pair of randy teenagers, but I do see. And I hate them both for that as well.

It should be me.

Hermione finds me as I set down my empty glass on the bar. Champagne isn't enough for this night, so I switch to something stronger, knowing I'll regret the combination in the morning.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," she says. I don't look at her. "I honestly didn't think you were coming tonight or I would have told you sooner."

"How long have they been together," I ask as I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. I probably don't want to know the answer, and I'm certain it's none of my business, but Hermione knows I still care, even if I sometimes try to tell myself I don't.

"Harry's only known him for two, maybe three months."

I glance over my shoulder at where they're standing, as if my body can sense exactly where he is this time. They're smiling at one another, laughing. Harry looks happier than I've seen him in a very long time. It hurts more than I think it should.

~*~

_"What are you thinking about?" he asks after a long, drawn out silence. We're both lying on our backs, staring up at the ceiling that Harry has charmed to reflect the night sky._

_"I don't really know," I respond. It's mostly true. I had been thinking about my life and how I had ended up in bed with Harry Potter after just a few weeks of working with him at the Ministry, but my mind had gone off on a tangent. "Thinking about getting up and showering the smell of sex off of me before I go home to my mother."_

_He snorts softly. "Come on. You're twenty-six years old. You think your mother will mind if you don't come home just one night?" Harry scoots closer, draping his arm over my stomach and pulling me against his warm, hard body. I'm not used to this type of physical affection from anyone at all, and even after nearly two months of seeing each other, it still surprises me that Harry always wants to touch me._

_"It'll break her heart if she doesn't get to tuck me in," I joke. Harry smiles, but it doesn't seem to reach his eyes._

_"That must be nice," he says, and all at once I'm stricken with the urge to wrap him in my arms and keep him there forever._

_I don't move._

_"I don't think anyone's ever tucked me in at night. Not since I was a baby, anyway."_

_My heart aches for him. "Never?"_

_Harry looks like he's thinking about this, trying to remember. He shakes his head._

_I roll toward him and kiss his lips until he relaxes again, my fingertips gently tracing a path up his side._

_"That isn't how your mother kisses you goodnight, is it?" he asks when finally we part for air._

_I dig my fingers into his ribs, earning the most ridiculous giggle as he tries to twitch away from me._

_"No. But I have my own preferred method of exhausting you before I sneak out at night."_

_I pull him close again, kissing his neck, caressing his back. It's the only time I really allow myself to hold him and touch him at all, in the privacy of his bedroom._

~*~

Hermione introduces me to Mrs Miller, a charming older witch with blue-tinted hair and fingernails spell-stained red to match her lipstick. Her smile is warm and friendly, and conversation with her flows with ease. Before long, she's insisting that I come and introduce myself to her staff one day at St Mungo’s. She’d like to offer me a position in her ward if I think I’ll fit in. It’s only two days a week, but I think it might just be exactly the change I'm in need of.

By the time Isaac finds me again, I've nearly forgotten about Harry and the tall sandy-haired man who clings so tightly to him—or, perhaps I haven't forgotten, but simply washed away most of my give-a-fuck with a third glass of firewhiskey.

It's time to go before anyone notices that I'm less than sober. Pansy will have my guts for garters if she finds out I've had more than two drinks at a public affair, let alone that it was firewhiskey.

I roll my eyes as Isaac places his hand in the centre of my back, guiding me toward the exit. It isn’t meant to be degrading at all, but I somehow always manage to take it that way, as if I can’t find my own way without someone there to lead me.

"I'll go grab our coats," Isaac says, leaning in so that I can feel his hot breath on my neck. "Are you all right?" he asks. "You look upset."

"I'm fine," I assure him. "Just tired."

Isaac nods before turning and heading toward the coat check. I haven't said goodnight to Hermione or Weasley, but I can't really care. It really has been a long and trying evening. All I want to do is go home and curl up under my covers.

A Malfoy shouldn't cry himself to sleep at night, though, or pine over a lost love that was never real to begin with.

Strong arms wrap around me and I'm being tugged off of the garden path. I don't have to see him to know it's Harry. My whole body seems to respond to him, relaxing against his chest in the few brief moments he holds me before turning me and pressing my back to the garden wall.

"What the fuck are you doing here," he snaps, his voice filled with so much disdain that I nearly double over with the force of it. "You don't even work with these charities anymore. Did you come to check up on me?"

"Fuck off, Potter. As I've told you before, my life doesn't revolve around you."

He's pressed against me, his eyes as hard as his body, and then I watch as his expression softens. His gaze drops from mine to the very little space between us, and he squeezes his eyes shut. I take the opportunity to re-memorise him; the way his hair, a touch longer now, still stands out in every direction, the line of his jaw, the way his dark eyelashes brush against his cheekbones, the pale scar on his forehead. He smells perfect, like brandy and warmth and home. Without opening his eyes, he leans forward slowly. For an instant, I think he's going to kiss me and I know that would be the death of me. I close my own eyes now, bracing myself for the inevitable pain of the loss I'll feel when he's gone again, preparing for his lips to press against mine and draw out the last shred of my ripped soul. His mouth doesn't meet mine, though. He simply brushes his lips up the side of my neck.

"I miss you," he whispers into my ear. I want to grab him by the lapels of his jacket, drag him to the nearest floo and take him home with me. Lock him away in the chirping cricket room and demand that he stays, that he's mine. But I don't. The one thing I have left is the smallest shred of pride and I hang onto it like a kite string in a hurricane.

He says he misses me, but I can't be certain if it's actually _me_ or just the familiarity of what we had that he really longs for.

I wonder, for the briefest moment, what the point of seeing a psychiatrist is if Anna is trying to convince me to stop hating myself and everyone else before I can have a proper relationship, while Harry is, apparently, convinced that it's time to move on.

I take one last deep breath of him before pushing myself off the wall and walking away.

I don't look back. I can't bear to.

Isaac hands me my coat. He, thankfully, doesn't ask where I've been. I throw everything I can into the fountain as we pass: galleons, sickles, knuts...hopes, dreams, wishes of better tomorrows. The only thing I keep for myself is my pain, a reminder of what I brought upon myself, a scar that I will wear for the rest of my existence to warn others of who I am, what I do. I hurt the people who love me. Every last one of them. Not that they don't all return the favour eventually, anyway.

~*~

_“You aren’t worth it.” It’s the most bitter lie I’ve ever told, meant to hurt, to cut deeply for no reason other than to push him away. He’s too close, smothering me, drowning me in these foreign emotions._

_Harry simply nods, the hurt so completely evident in his eyes that I feel it stabbing through my soul._

_“Keep the house. It should be yours, anyway. I’ll send for my things later.” The door slams shut behind him, stirring a gust of unseasonably icy air in its wake. I know it’s his magic, his hurt and hate that has caused the temperature to drop so suddenly._

_I reach for the door handle, wanting to go after him, to tell him it isn’t true, that he_ is _worth the effort. He_ is _worth fighting for. The woman in the portrait beside me cackles with glee behind drawn curtains._

_“Let him go. I don’t want his filthy blood tainting my family, my home.”_

_I press my palms to the cooling wood of the front door and shiver. It’s better this way. I know it is._

~*~

"I'd like to see you again sometime, if that's all right," Isaac says as we turn the corner to Grimmauld place. "Maybe without the giant crowd of people." He smiles devilishly. "Just the two of us."

I know I'm not ready—I don't think I ever will be—but the thought of Harry moving on without me stings like salt in an open wound.

I nod. And thank him for a nice evening. It's the polite thing to do even if it is a fabrication of the truth. The evening was far less than pleasant.

Isaac loops his hand round the back of my neck and pulls me toward him. My heart stutters in my chest, protesting the violation of all of my personal boundaries, but my body and mind seem to have accepted defeat. His lips brush mine and I feel myself shutting down, closing off that part of me that continues to riddle me with guilt and chide me for finding some small amount of interest in anyone but Harry.

I allow myself to return the kiss, but my mind is in such a haze that I can't even be sure of where I'm putting my hands or if I'm even touching him back.

Finally, I break away, thanking him once more before walking through my front door.

Grimmauld Place has always felt less than welcoming without Harry by my side. I didn't want to keep the house, whether it belonged in my family or not, but I reasoned it was just his way of telling me that he'd be back, that we would be okay.

Now, though, I feel as if it's judging me. I should have said something to Harry, told him that I miss him, too, that I'm sorry I wasn't the man that he needed me to be. It was the one opportunity that I've had to try and right all that's wrong between us, but I didn't. Instead, I simply stood there breathing him in and trying desperately not to break.

Pride is, indeed, a foolish thing. What use has it ever had? It's vain and biased and hurtful and has never done this world a single service. I try to think of anything else as I shower the entire night off of my skin, but I'm so riddled with regret that it's difficult to focus on anything other than what I could have—should have said.

~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~

_He's been working on a particularly difficult case for weeks, trying to track down a group of young wizards that have been casting curses on their own families. He doesn't look at me as I enter the kitchen, he just stares into his cup of tea, shoulders slumped in defeat. It's obvious that it isn't going well, that something's happened. Harry is good at his job, perhaps the best, though I'd never admit that to him, but he always seems to take things so personally. Especially the failures._

_"A three year old child," he says without looking up at me. I'm not even sure he's speaking to me at all. "If I would have caught them last week, she'd still be alive."_

_I have no idea what to say or how to comfort him, but I know that I should, that he needs me to._

_I top off his tea and somehow, in the silence, I manage to convince myself that what he really wants is some time alone to think, so I leave._

~*~

April is wearing on in its usual fashion, except that it still all feels so foreign to me as I walk the floors of Grimmauld Place, my footfalls echoing coldly behind me as if to remind me that I’m alone here.

The journal looks lonely, and I wonder if it, too, suffers in his absence. Reluctantly, I take a seat at the desk and open the book to an entry of my own dated 26 May, 2009.

_I'm losing myself in you. I feel like I don't even know who I am anymore, who I used to be. Domestic is not something one associates with a Malfoy. I don't belong here._

I groan in frustration, resting my forehead in my hands as I stare down at the page. Is it even possible that I've changed so much in the last year? That I've grown to realise just what an idiot I was to think that way? It must be, because I certainly do see it now.

Harry's response is scrawled in large, messy letters just after my own message.

_Maybe losing yourself isn't such a bad thing. Maybe we aren't supposed to be the same people we were in the beginning._

Followed by more immature and irrational words by my hand:

_I like who I was. And if you didn't, how could you claim to love me now?_

I thumb through the pages quickly, wondering if I had ever told him, even in ink, how I felt about him. I didn't. I already knew as much. I cringe at my own stupidity before slamming the book shut again.

Over the next few days, I think long and hard about the things Anna said; the direction of my life, my past. I know she's right about some things. The fact that I have intimacy issues is obvious, her suspicion for my lack of showing emotion, telling people how I feel, seems to be fairly accurate, though. I do have some strange fear of rejection. I don't think anyone wants to put themselves out there, lay their feelings bare for another person, only to risk being hurt. My absolute blatant refusal to do that, even in the presence of someone I _know_ would never intentionally hurt me, is where my problem lies, though.

His candle still burns brightly beside my bed, the flame dancing erratically as if it’s telling a story that it needs me to hear. I watch it every night as I drift off to sleep, my own stories playing out for me behind closed eyelids.

~*~

_I hardly recognise myself in the mirror; pallid complexion, dark circles under my eyes reflecting the shadows within. It’s been a trying month before the Wizengamot, pleading my mother’s case in the hopes that they would allow her to keep what she had left of our family’s estate. They’ve already taken so much from her._

_Soft music plays within the bedroom on the other side of the wall—a low, melancholy tune drifting through the air and warming the night. With one last glance at my reflection, I realise I’m well beyond hope for the evening. I rinse my mouth, set my toothbrush back in its holder, and pull on my pyjama bottoms before opening the bathroom door._

_Harry is standing on the other side, leaning casually against the frame and smiling timidly as if he’s unsure whether or not he should be there. His eyes seem to shimmer in the dim light of the room as he gazes at me with such concern. My body seems to fill with an ache that I’ve somehow managed to ignore for days, maybe weeks. I hurt. I need. A deluge of exhaustion crashes over me and all I want to do is collapse into his arms. I lean opposite him against the doorframe instead, tilting my head back and closing my eyes._

_“It’s over,” he says quietly. I feel the heat radiating off his body before he even touches me. He slides his arms around my waist, his chest against mine and I sigh with relief, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You did it. No more Wizengamot, no more Chief Warlock, no more late nights of research.”_

_“Thank you,” I whisper into his hair. “For all of your help...and just for being there.”_

_Harry laughs. “I don’t think I helped much, but I’ll always be there.” He moves away from me, my heart reacting irrationally to the meagre distance he’s put between us._

_He reaches out and takes my hand, pulling me into the open space of our bedroom before wrapping his arms around me once again. His lips brush over mine softly, barely touching my own as we breathe each other in. When he finally kisses me, it feels as if my heart may burst. I close my eyes tightly, savouring the comfort of his very presence._

_Slowly, he begins to sway, rocking us both gently to the music that fills the air. He takes my hand, pressing it to his bare chest and holding it there with his own as we turn. I can feel his heart beating against my palm, steady and strong, sending a metrical thrum into my own body until I can no longer tell his heartbeat apart from mine._

_I don’t question the fact that we’re dancing together barefoot and in our pyjamas on a Tuesday night of no real consequence, because the way he’s looking at me erases every single thought in my mind. His lips meet mine again, his tongue sweeping into my mouth for just a fraction of a second._

_“Mmm...” I can feel his smile against my mouth as he hums with pleasure. “Careful kisses taste like love.”_

_I pull back to look at him, arching an eyebrow questioningly at his cryptic words. “Excuse me?”_

_He smiles, his hand on my back holding me firmly against his body. “Your kisses, they have different flavours.”_

_“You’re mad.” I’m too tired to laugh or I certainly would._

_“No, it’s true. When you’re happy, your smile tastes sweet and warm, like melted honey. Passionate is raw, natural and earthy.” His eyes search mine as we continue to move to the music that’s no longer playing. “Even the angry kisses taste good to me. Bitter, like spiced lemon.”_

_I shake my head, smiling at him. “Are you saying that you can tell what sort of mood I’m in just by kissing me?”_

_“Draco, I usually know what sort of mood you’re in as soon as I walk into the room.”_

~*~

The children’s ward at St Mungo’s is nothing like the rest of the hospital. It smells sweet, like warm cinnamon over hot cross buns. The walls are brightly coloured with charmed images of flowing waterfalls and endless forests. Unicorns prance about by lakeshores and rainbows glimmer on the horizon.

Mrs Miller— _Healer_ Miller, here at the hospital—greets me with a welcoming smile. She’s busy with paperwork for the moment, but kindly invites me to make myself comfortable in the living area.

Giant, over-stuffed armchairs and mismatched couches line the edges of a large, brightly coloured throw rug in the centre of the room. A window nearly the size of the wall is charmed to show a tropical beach on what appears to be a warm, relaxing island. In one corner, an abundance of plush cushions and pillows in various shapes and sizes are strewn about beside a wide bookcase. There are children everywhere, smiling despite their circumstances as they play with one another or tease their attendants.

“Hullo,” a small voice calls up to me. I look down into a pair of shimmering blue eyes. “Are you a healer?” the little girl asks, brushing waves of dark hair over her shoulder to reveal a blood-covered bandage on the side of her neck.

“Not exactly, no,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the crimson stained dressing. “Is there something I can help you with?” I look around the room for anyone wearing the yellow-coloured robes of the healers of this ward. There’s a young woman kneeling beside a small, frail looking boy, coaxing him to drink a small phial of potion.

“Nana Miller says that when it starts to bleed again, I should tell someone before it gets too bad.” Her lip trembles and a fat teardrop rolls down her cheek.

I look around again, fully aware of the fact that I don’t actually work here yet, but that, if I want to, I’d better get comfortable helping people without constant prompting.

“What’s happened to you?” I ask, kneeling down beside the sad little girl. She winces as I remove the dressing from her wound.

“Vampire,” she says in a hushed tone, as though it’s a secret for my ears only. I nearly flinch away from her, but the sad expression on her round face holds me firm.

The wounds on her neck look fresh, tinted blue around the edges, dark blood pulsing up to the surface. We weren’t taught much about vampires in healer training, but my tainted past has granted me more experience than I care to have with some things. I don’t know enough to have any clue why the little girl is still alive, or how she hadn’t become one of them. I’m certain she wouldn’t be allowed around the other children if there was any risk of her turning, though.

“Nasty buggers, they are. Let’s see what we can do.” There’s a sink at the far end of the living area, a cabinet above it clearly labelled “supplies.” I gesture for the girl to follow me as I lead her across the room.

Flicking my wand, I draw a chair for her and tell her to take a seat. The cabinet, I’m grateful to learn, is locked to keep the children from getting into it. Another wave of my wand and a whispered _Alohomora_ opens the heavy wooden doors, revealing fresh bandages and rows of potions.

As I clean and re-dress the girls injury, I ask her questions to keep her talking in the hopes of easing her discomfort and sadness. She tells me that her name is Miriam, she’s six years old, and that she doesn’t know where her mum or dad are.

A sickening feeling inside me tells me that I do.

“This is Theseus.” Miriam holds up a tiny, handmade, ragged doll. It’s fashioned of garlic husks and reeks of rot. “Mummy said he’d protect me, but he doesn’t work anymore.” Her sad eyes fall to the doll once more, waves of dark hair falling in a curtain in front of her face.

“Mr Malfoy, thank you so much for waiting.” Healer Miller tucks a lock of hair behind Miriam’s ear, nonchalantly examining the dressing. She casts me an approving smile before kneeling beside the child. “Why don’t you go ask Susan if she’ll fix you a milkshake, Miriam?”

The little girl nods, leaping down from the chair and tucking Theseus into the pocket of her hospital robes.

“She’s been here over a week already,” Healer Miller says as she watches the small girl walk away. “Her parents were killed, but she doesn’t know yet.”

“By the same one who attacked her?” I ask, finding my voice.

She nods. “Some sort of sacrifice, the poor child. We were barely able to save her, and even now we can’t seem to stop the bleeding entirely. We’ve tried spelling the wounds shut, congealing potions, and even resorted to blood replenishing draughts to buy us more time.”

“Try a dissemination salve,” I tell her. It isn’t anything taught in training, and I’d rather not explain _why_ I know how to treat a vampire bite—that my knowledge is due to years of reluctant servitude to the Dark Lord, that some things were learned out of necessity rather than hunger for knowledge.

“A dissemination salve will prevent the blood from congealing naturally, though.” Her voice is kind, but she doesn’t try to hide the fact that she is confident in her knowledge.

“Some vampires actually have a certain enzyme in their saliva that causes a wound to stay open and prevents blood from coagulating. A dissemination salve will break up the residual enzyme where it’s created that barrier and allow her natural haemostasis to pick back up.”

She looks at me appraisingly as we make our way down the corridor. Finally, as if making up her mind, she nods. “If that works, Mr Malfoy, I may need to keep you around here more often than just two days per week.”

Healer Miller introduces me to members of her staff as we make our way around. She explains that the healers on this floor wear yellow robes, while the attendants wear green, and trainees blue. Mine will be green until we settle on a more permanent training arrangement.

The children’s ward is much larger than I would have ever thought. There are different sections for each age group, separate halls for various ailments, but with each corner turned, I’m surprised to be greeted by so many smiling faces and contagious laughter. The patients here are in surprisingly good spirit. I can’t help but wonder if that’s just how children are, or if joy is woven in to the magic of this place.

“I’m afraid you’ll find that it isn’t always like this,” Healer Miller says as though she’s reading my thoughts. She gestures toward a small, frail child at the end of a long row of beds. He’s tucked in tightly, a bag of glowing potion dripping into a tube that leads to his hand. A healer is perched on the edge of his bed, stroking the child’s arm as he speaks softly to him. “Some of these children are very sick. Muggle diseases that even magic can’t cure...I wouldn’t trade this job for any other.” Healer Miller’s eyes are distant as if she’s gazing off into another time that’s just out of reach. “I used to wonder what illness could be so cruel as to steals away a child’s ability to smile. I’ve spent fifty-two years giving them back.”

“You seem like you’re very good at your job,” I say as I watch an attendant rock a girl on her lap as she plays with her hair.

“I do my best, and I hope that you will, too. It’s important to learn from mistakes. Not only your own, but that of those around you as well. Things will happen that can’t be changed, Mr Malfoy. The important thing is moving on from them and doing better with the next chance you’re given.”

There’s a faint prickling behind my eyes as I soak in the meaning of her words. I nod and assure her that it’s just what I plan to do.

We round another corner into a securely warded area. Healer Miller waves her wand to allow us entry.

“This,” she says as we step into another large room full of beds and brightly coloured cushions, children scattered about, reading, drawing and painting, “is what the charity you worked for last year helps to fund. These are the children with incurable magical ailments.”

“Nana Miller!” a girl cries as she rushes across the room and hugs the blue-haired woman beside me. Healer Miller lifts the child into her arms and hugs her tightly.

“It seems,” I begin as the girl scurries back across the room with a bright smile on her face, “that the children here respond well to contact.” It hadn’t escaped my notice that every healer I’d seen since arriving was holding or touching a child in one way or another.

“Oh, yes. Countless researchers, both Muggle and wizard, have proven time and again the importance of human contact.” She sighs sadly. “A number of these children won’t be leaving here, Mr Malfoy. Those who do must be able to function as stable, healthy adults later in life, both physically _and_ emotionally. But those who don’t must always know that they are loved and cherished in their short time here on this earth.”

~*~

_We sit together, gazing out over the vast stretch of ocean as the sunlight glitters on the waves. It’s been months since we met here the first time, on a grim day that Harry somehow shattered, shining his light through the dark fissures. Our views here had contradicted each other so vastly last time. While I had seen the sight before me as a world of sparkling nothingness, a means to an end and a way to escape, Harry had looked out onto the ocean and seen nothing but possibility; a clear foundation on which to build a new life, burying memories of a violent war and a lifetime of worry and woe beneath the crushing weight of the water._

_I don’t quite understand how the bitter, angry boy I’d known in school grew up to be the kind and caring man that sits here beside me now. He seems to take nothing at all for granted, finding beauty in even the darkest decay of this world, happiness where no one else would think to look for it._

_He reaches out and takes my hand as if to emphasise my thoughts. “Come here,” he says, tugging me toward him._

_I’m already inexplicably nervous from just the smallest amount of contact, but I push it aside, settling against him as he wraps his arm around me. His fingers draw gentle lines up and down my arm until I actually feel the tension in my body dissipating._

_I lean into him more, pressing my lips to his neck, hoping to convey my gratitude. “You’re cold.” I kiss him again. “You should have brought your coat.”_

_He laughs, lying back and pulling me down with him. “I figured you’d keep me warm.”_

_~*~_

"You're wrong, you know," I tell Anna when I see her again. "It wasn't a relationship based on hate. I loved him—still love him—with everything that I am. I may have been absolute shite at showing it, but he wasn't. I know he loved me, too. I just...I worried that if he knew how much I needed him, it would somehow be used against me. I know now how ridiculous that was." I think it's the most I've spoken to her of my own accord since we began meeting, but I wanted her to know the truth. "I really do love him."

She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs and studying me above the rim of her glasses. I don't look away, wanting her to feel the conviction of my words, to weigh the truth of them before pencilling it into her tiny notebook.

Anna smiles. "I know you do," she says. I'm surprised that she acquiesces. She has, after all, spent months feeding me the idea that we despised each other more than we cared for one another. "I simply wanted you to see that, Draco. It isn't my job to tell you _how_ to feel, but to give you the tools needed to discover that on your own."

~*~

The fire crackles in the grate before me, warming my skin as it casts eerie shadows throughout the room. It’s late, but I can’t sleep. Not with this much on my mind. The words of Healer Miller spiral through my thoughts: learning from mistakes, moving on from a past that can’t be changed, the importance of knowing that you’re loved.

Harry had never been tucked in or kissed good night. As a child, he had never sat on someone’s lap while that person read to him, or told him how much they loved him. In fact, Harry had told me himself that it wasn’t until he was fourteen years old that he even heard those words directed at him.

He’d never even learned to ask for those things that he craved, and I had never learned to offer them.

I take a slip of parchment from the desk drawer, considering my words carefully before writing out a quick note. After tying it to the owl’s leg, I open the front door and send him on his way.

Sleep has slipped through my fingers tonight, but I can’t quite find an unoccupied space inside me to care. I pace the entry hall, searching for solace in the hollow, rhythmic echo of my steps. Nothing can calm my mind or still my trembling hands as I wait.

“Some of us are trying to sleep, you realise,” the nasty woman in the portrait calls from behind her curtains.

“And some of us can’t,” I reply, more to myself.

“Why don’t you try sleeping outside with the other vile creatures?” she hisses, her voice dripping with disdain. “You shouldn’t be here at all, you useless blood-traitor!” she shouts as the curtains fly open. “This is the Noble House of Black. It isn’t meant for mudbloods and turncoats!”

“Fuck off,” I snap, pointing my wand at the portrait of my great aunt. I know reverse sticking charms are useless, as is everything else we’ve tried, but I’ve a theory of another way to remove the damned thing, albeit crass and unrefined.

Her shrill voice should be a welcome distraction from the demanding thoughts in my mind. I lower my wand and continue to pace, trying to tune out the hateful words, not needing anything else to wriggle its way into my thoughts.

It’s only when she starts yelling about Harry that I actually begin to hear her again. I’m already irritated, nervous, and anxious. Anger is not an ingredient I care to add to that bubbling caldron.

“...Should have died...better off without _any_ of them...defiling my home with his disgusting presence!”

She has no right to say those things about him. She doesn’t know him at all. No one knows him the way that I do. Anger flairs inside me as she carries on.

 _“Diffindo!”_ I shout, slicing a gash into the palm of my own hand.I don’t even allow for a single thought of pain before violently flinging my arm in the direction of the portrait, splattering blood across the canvas, dark lines marring the painted face of Walburga Black. My hands drag harshly across the canvas, smearing crimson streaks as she shrieks her protest.

With a silent incantation, the blood magic activates, sending a ripple throughout the painting before it crashes to the floor. I incinerate it. My wand hand trembles as I continue to point it needlessly at the pile of ashes on the floor. Blood runs down my other hand, dripping from my fingertips and splattering on the floor at my feet.

I feel his eyes on me before I realise the front door is now open, cool night air surrounding me and filling my lungs. Harry takes my hand carefully examining the injury before casting Vulnera Sanentur to close the wound.

“You came,” I manage to say as I watch his lips move.

His gaze snaps up to mine, his eyes far more kind than I think I’ve ever deserved. “Of course I came. Your note said you wanted to talk to me.” He releases my hand gingerly.

I nod slowly, desperately searching for an order to the words that had been spiralling through my thoughts for so long. “Some things shouldn’t be said with ink.”

~*~

Somehow, we end up outside on the front stoop, watching the dark storm clouds roll in the distance as purple sheets of lightning illuminate the sky. It must feel more comfortable for both of us outside of the confines of the house, more neutral.

“I didn’t expect to ever hear from you again,” he says, gazing out into the distance.

“There were too many things unsaid.” I take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes closed in an attempt to shut out any doubt I may be feeling about having this conversation. My fears and reservations continue to churn as ominously as the clouds in the sky. “I didn’t really think you would come tonight.”

“Draco,” Harry says. I turn my gaze to him just as a burst of lightning flashes in his eyes, illuminating them with a green heat as intense as that of _Avada Kedavra_ , only it offers the opposite effect. It feels as though I’ve been shot with a burst of life, rather than death. “I told you before that I’d always be here for you. You said you needed me _—_ that you needed to talk. Nothing could stop me from coming.”

I lean back against the rail, drawing my knees up and wringing my hands. His words blanket me in warmth and comfort, giving me the courage needed to go on. “I thought it was going to kill me the other day, seeing you at the Ministry Formal. I’ve never even considered the likelihood of having to watch you move on without me...even after all this time.”

Harry furrows his brow, shaking his head. “I haven’t moved on, Draco. He was just a date that accompanied me.”

His admission nearly startles me into silence, but I reason that I’ve come too far tonight to fall quiet now. I reach back in my memory, searching for Hermione’s words that evening, trying to recall how she had responded when I asked how long Harry and the other man had been together. She had simply said they’d known each other for a few months.

“Why haven’t you?” I ask. It isn’t fair that I need to hear his response before explaining why I asked him here, but the twisting fear in my gut renders me helpless against it.

“I just…needed to be alone for a while. Needed to find myself.”

“And did you?”

Harry nods. “I think so. What matters, anyway.”

“Oh?” I try not to let my voice waver, but having him so near me after all this time, it’s difficult, so I opt instead to keep my part of the conversation as short as possible for now.

“I’ve never lived for myself. For me and only me. It seems my entire existence since before I was even born has been mapped out and determined for me. I think we both needed to take a step back, figure out what we’re doing and what we want. I discovered that...I don’t really want to be _me_ without you.”

My chest clenches painfully, and I continue to stare down at the ground between my feet. I don’t want to allow myself to hope. It’s been so long that he’s been gone.

Harry laughs softly. It’s a different sort of laughter than the one that rings clear in my memory. It seems unconfident; something I haven’t associated with him in years. “I’ll never stop loving you, Draco,” he says quietly. “Even when you’ve told me so many times that I shouldn’t.”

All of the air in my lungs seems to freeze momentarily as the ever-present ache inside me sharpens. "I know I have no right to interrupt your life now,” I tell him through the pain. “But I needed you to know that I'm sorry, Harry. For everything I said to you, for making you feel that you didn't mean enough to me." I swallow down the lump in my throat. He's staring at me in stunned silence, lips slightly parted as though he's barely holding back the words that ache to fall from them. I scoot a little bit closer to him, wanting to touch him but not sure if I should. "What I'm mostly sorry for, though, are all the things I didn't say to you." The urge to reach out and take his hand is so overwhelming that I finally do give in, afraid that he'll pull away. He doesn't. He turns his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. "I love you, Harry...I think I've loved you every day that I've known you. It took me fifteen years to realise it, and another four to finally admit it out loud, but God, I do." I’ve written those words in the journal since he’s left, I’ve even admitted them to Anna, but nothing could ever compare to the feeling of saying them to Harry himself. It’s something he’s deserved to know for years and I’m ashamed of myself for keeping it from him. There’s a small smile playing at the corners of his beautiful lips as he stares down at our joined hands. I continue before he has a chance to respond. "I've been a failure and a fucking coward my whole life. Always doing for others what they tell me I should. I'm done now. I know what I want, and for the first time in my life, I don't plan on letting anyone else influence me."

“And what’s that?” Harry asks, as if he doesn’t know. And then I realise that it doesn’t matter if he does; he still needs to hear it.

“You. Just you, always. I can do without everything else for the rest of my life, but not you.” A year ago, it would have sickened me to even think those words, let alone confess them. I wasn’t raised to admit to weaknesses, or to show affection. But, everything is different now. We’ve both changed so much from the people we were during the war. Harry had embraced his own personal changes long ago, but my inner demons still fought to hold on to the familiarity of who I once was.

I’m pleased to find that there isn’t a single drop of self-doubt within me when I reach out to touch him, fingertips brushing his cheek as I urge him to look at me. His eyes shimmer as lightening brightens them once again, a loud crack of thunder roaring through the sky above.

I lean in, tentatively brushing my lips over his, unsure of how he’ll react. He exhales a shaky breath against my lips, untangling his fingers from mine and cups my face.

The kiss is gentle, languorous, and filled with so much emotion that I can’t fathom how it isn’t visible in the air around us. I pour everything I have into it, needing him to feel the truth of my love for him, to understand. We draw away from each other slowly, each of us taking deep, steadying breaths.

He lets his hands drop as he searches my eyes. I wonder what he finds there. I wonder what that kiss tasted like to him because, to me, it tasted exactly like promise and hope.

“I should go,” he whispers, sadness in his eyes.

It feels as if a lighted match has been thrown into the centre of my being, igniting my soul with the most agonising pain. My hands are still on him, but I loosen my hold.

“Hey,” he says, drawing my focus back to his eyes and out of my own anguish. “Just for now. I just don’t think it would be good for either of us to dive back in without at least keeping one hand on the shore.”

I nod. He’s right. I know he is. I’ve come a long way in the last ten months, but I know I still have a much further to go.

“I’ll be here. As often as I can, any time you need me.”

“I’ll always need you,” I breathe, surprising even myself with the honest admission. “But I understand.”

Harry smiles again, warm and genuine, and brilliant. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed that smile, and the laugh that accompanies it.

“You really _have_ learned some things,” he says.

We talk a while longer until the sky above cracks open, spilling great drops of rain onto us. Harry asks me to come to the ocean with him on Saturday. I think it’s the perfect place to start over.

Before he leaves, I give him the journal. There are things in there that he hasn’t seen, but should. I also assure him that nothing written in it recently is exclusive to those pages. I don’t want our communication to be through that book this time.

I tell him again that I love him and kiss him softly without reserve. It’s easier now than it was earlier tonight, and I hope that means, given time, it’ll be easier still and more natural to me. He walks to the street outside of the wards and smiles at me again before Apparating away.

~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~

It didn’t take long at all for Healer Miller to take on the task of training me personally. Most of my education was still fresh in my mind. It was only actual experience that I lacked, which is being rectified now, Monday through Friday here in St Mungo’s.

Miriam has been discharged into the care of her maternal aunt and uncle after months of having nowhere to go. The Ministry had difficulty locating any remaining members of the child’s family as they had been living outside of the country for several years now.

Unable to have children of their own, the young couple had dedicated their lives to humanitarian services in less fortunate parts of the world. She had been devastated to hear of the death of her sister, but perfectly happy to come home and care for the orphaned child.

Miriam had spent weeks healing, and months grieving, so to see a smile on the girls face as I passed her from my arms to the waiting embrace of her aunt, was truly something worth the effort I’d extended into her care.

It’s a small accomplishment in comparison with what’s to come in this career, but it’s an accomplishment nonetheless. I smile to myself as I leave the children’s ward, tucking my wand into the pocket of my green robes.

“Have a good night, Healer Malfoy,” Susan, a resident attendant, calls from her spot on the couch surrounded by sleepy children.

I smile at her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

~*~

The leaves are beginning to turn, signalling the end of another long summer. I note that, with each changing season, comes significant change in my life as well. Gradually, brighter memories of happier times are slowly driving away the shadows of my past.

I reach out and take Harry’s hand as we make our way down the quiet street. An autumn chill sweeps through the air, sending a shiver through us both.

“Why do you think they do that?” I ask once we’re far enough away from Hermione and Ron’s house that I’m sure they won’t hear us.

“Do what?” Harry inches closer, his shoulder brushing mine.

“Invite us over for dinner and then refuse to allow us to help them clean up.” Hermione and Ron are an odd pair. We have dinner with them every Thursday night and each time, I watch in fascination as they perform all of their domestic duties with as little magic as possible.

“I think it helps them to stay close, understand each other better,” Harry answers. “Hermione’s Muggle-born. She grew up watching her parents do everything together without the help of magic. It’s part of who she is. Sort of seems to be their way of meeting each other in the middle, compromising, you know?”

I nod in understanding. “They seem happy that way. Even when they’re washing dishes they still smile and sneak kisses into their conversation.”

“It gives them more time together, to talk, or...I don’t know. Just be together. Sort of like this.” He squeezes my hand. “I mean, why is it that we walk home every Thursday night rather than Apparating?”

I stop, tugging Harry to a halt beside me. His look of confusion quickly melts into something else as I pull him to me for a deep, messy kiss. I still don’t have it in me to tell him that I love him as often as I think it—which is almost constantly—but that’s all right. I show him, and it feels good to be able to do that.

~*~

He hasn’t been home long. Both of us agreed to take our time restarting this relationship of ours. Our bedroom glows softly with the light of Harry’s candle. I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for him as I watch the flickering flame. This time, I feel as though I know the stories it tells. It speaks of love and longing, sorrow and remorse, but it also tells a tale of happiness and lessons learned.

“That might be something else to talk to Anna about next time we see her,” Harry jokes as he enters the room and catches me—not for the first time—lost in thought, gazing at the tiny flame. “The strange attachment you seem to have formed with that thing.” He tosses his towel down as he crosses the room.

“Are you jealous?” I smile, dragging my hands up his thighs as soon as I can reach him.

He slides his fingers into my hair, tilting my head back so that our eyes meet. The sheer intensity of his gaze nearly steals my breath away and all residual thought of candles and gentle banter are driven out of my mind when he leans down and kisses me.

“I’m proud of you,” he says with a small, shy smile.

I almost laugh at how odd he sometimes is, to stand here in front of me, completely naked with no shame at all only to become timid as he strikes up a conversation on a serious topic.

“Really,” he continues when I fail to respond. “It takes a lot of courage to change the things you aren’t happy with in life, no matter what they are.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

~*~

_“Don’t leave,” I whisper against his lips as he makes to pull away. I wrap my arms more tightly around him, savouring the warm press of his body against mine as we lay together on the couch. It’s been a lazy day filled with stolen glances, silent kisses and gentle touches. There’s an actual physical pain in my chest when I think of him going home for the night. It’s been so long since I’ve fallen asleep beside him._

_“I think sleepovers are against the rules.” He smiles, searching my eyes before kissing me softly once again._

_“The rules are self-imposed, Harry. They’re ours to break.”_

_He sighs, resting his head on my shoulder. I draw my knee up, hooking my leg over his and creating an even more difficult position for him to get out of—not that he’s trying._

_“Come home.” I want it to sound like a request, but I’m afraid it’s come out more as a desperate plea. It’s been months since that night in April, since we decided to try again._

_He’s silent for so long that I fear he’ll never respond, but then he does._

_“Okay.” His hot breath fans out over my neck, warming my entire body with the promise of that one, tiny word._

_He nuzzles against my neck and inhales deeply before moving again, slowly dragging his lips across my jaw until his mouth is on mine. “Okay,” he repeats before kissing me again._

_If it were possible, my heart would burst with the love and elation that floods my soul. I wonder if he can taste it._

_He takes my hand as we walk into our bedroom together. Wimble has left the window open after cleaning this afternoon, airing out the staleness and disuse of the room. The curtains dance on the breeze as if waving us on, encouraging our reunion._

_A breathless laugh escapes him as I wrap my arms around his waist and kiss his neck._

_“Impatient?” he accuses as his fingers betray his question, unfastening my trousers and pushing them down. He tugs at the hem of my shirt until that, too, is gone, leaving me entirely exposed._

_His gaze is filled with such love and need that all thought of embarrassment at standing here before him, completely naked, is quickly driven away. It only takes a single touch from him to assure me that he is—has always been—exactly what I need to save me from myself._

_Gently, I coax Harry down onto the bed, slowly making my way up his body and kissing each newly exposed spot of skin as I remove his clothing. I’m inexplicably nervous, as if this is my first time. Perhaps it’s the first time it’s actually mattered so much._

_Trembling fingers grip my jaw, and in that moment I know it’s the same for him. He pulls me into a slow, sweet kiss that seems to wash through me, cleansing my mind and body of all lingering despair from his absence. The hot slide of his tongue, the warm touch of his hand, his breath mingling with my own are all testimony of how very real this moment is. I shift deliberately against him, dragging my body over his, hot, hard, needy._

_My mind is awash with desperation and longing. Every touch, every kiss, coalesces into the next, igniting my senses, reminding me of what it feels like to live rather than simply exist. Another deliberate shift sees me lying on my back, pulling Harry atop me in a silent request that I know he understands._

_A hot mouth against my neck is only a slight distraction from the burning stretch of his oil-slick fingers in my body. It’s been so long, so fucking long, and I nearly whimper as he finally withdraws them, only to be replaced by his thick, heavy cock. He continues to kiss and lick my neck as he slowly slides into me. My fingers twist into his hair, holding his mouth against my skin. The soothing heat of his body is a welcome distraction to the dull ache that I’m no longer accustomed to._

_It only takes a moment for my body to remember. He fits so perfectly, filling me with each agonisingly slow inward stroke, only to leave me empty and aching when he pulls out again. I need more of him, all of him, and I don’t know how to accomplish that when he’s already inside me._

_I wrap my legs around his waist more tightly, splaying my hands out over his back, needing to touch as much of him as possible._

_“Draco.” It’s almost a plea and I realise that his voice, his acknowledgement, is exactly the closeness that I’m longing for. "God, I've missed you so much."_

_It feels as if I'm falling into a deep chasm, clinging to him like he's all that could save me. With one hand on my hip, he holds me as he thrusts into me again. I shift helplessly, needing to feel more of his skin against mine, taste more of his kisses on my tongue, hear more of his breathless words in my ear._

_He complies without the need for simple words, pressing his chest to mine and whispering in his lust-thick voice._

_“You feel so good, so fucking perfect.”_

_He teases my lips apart with his soft, sweet tongue and all sense of time is lost in that one slow kiss. The only coherent thought in my mind is that suddenly the entire world makes perfect sense to me; the careful balance of pain and ecstasy, loss and union, love and hate. For without the other, one would have nothing by which to measure its opposite._

_Even the darkest pieces of my past were not without merit. I think that if I had never experienced such fear and pain, perhaps this moment wouldn't shine so blindingly bright, consume me so entirely, lift me out of myself and into_ us _._

_Or, perhaps it would._

_Another slow stroke and I cry out in pleasure as he drags mercilessly against that spot inside me, igniting every long-neglected nerve in my body._

_No words can describe the dizzying pleasure that cascades through me as Harry reaches between us, taking my cock in his hand and stroking as he pushes into me even deeper than before._

_"Harry," I moan, unable to stop myself, unwilling to try. "I love you." The words come easily now, driven by truth and the knowledge of what it means to keep them to myself._

_"I love you, too," he answers breathlessly, screwing his eyes shut tightly and biting down on his bottom lip._

_“Look at me,” I whisper, the need to see his eyes too great to ignore, even in a moment of such pleasure._

_Green eyes snap open, droplets of moisture clinging to dark lashes as they flutter for the briefest moment before he fixes his gaze on mine. The weight of emotions in their depth threatens to crush me, but only adds to the incredible tempo of ecstasy inside._

_A building heat swirls in my centre, molten pleasure causing a tightness that I can no longer control. Images flash behind my eyes of sunsets and thunderstorms and dancing in our bedroom. My muscles clench around him, drawing him in, gripping him tightly as my release pulses out of me, hot and sticky._

_Harry isn’t far behind. His lips part, mouth hovering over mine as if he can’t focus enough to kiss me. But then he does, hot and desperate and messy as he groans and fills me with his own release. Uncaring of the mess I’ve made between us, we continue to slide languorously together, sated and over-sensitive, but neither willing to relinquish our hold on each other._

~*~

Life is full of choices. Sometimes people opt for what appeals to them rather than what's best. Mistakes can't always be unmade, just as words can't be unspoken. But we each come to a point in our lives where we must look back at the road we've travelled and decide for ourselves which parts of our past will break us, and which will define us. I made the decision to assail my demons, to drive out the foolish pride ingrained by my father and his father before him, to love without reservation.

The future is ours to mould, but no matter where it takes us, _he_ is my choice.

I choose him. 


End file.
